


Chasing Rubies

by Rollingwithchinchillas



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, M/M, Sebtana - Freeform, kurtbastian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollingwithchinchillas/pseuds/Rollingwithchinchillas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Rachel was allowed to parade Brody around the apartment any hour of the day proudly naked - which Santana would have appreciated during high school, can even take a nice look at now but generally wants to see none of it-, and Kurt was allowed to bring home blonde Prince Harry to sing show tunes with - like at the time - then Santana was sure she was allowed to bring home a drunk Sebastian from time to time, even if she was getting the worse end of the bargain between a hungover Sebastian in the morning, who would watch Brody too intently that Rachel would be trying to go all Lima Heights Adjacent, and a screeching Kurt Hummel because it wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to wreck my flea market chairs with #2 red dye, do you remember what he did to Blaine, San? Especially when she was that close to getting laid at the club before Sebastian intervened, ready to go home.</p>
<p>Santana never considered the possibility that maybe Sebastian Smythe was going out with the intention of returning to that horrid apartment that he so openly disapproved of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

If Rachel was allowed to parade Brody around the apartment any hour of the day proudly naked - which Santana would have appreciated during high school, can even take a nice look at now but generally wants to see none of it-, and Kurt was allowed to bring home blonde Prince Harry to sing show tunes with - like at the time - then Santana was sure she was allowed to bring home a drunk Sebastian from time to time, even if she was getting the worse end of the bargain between a hungover Sebastian in the morning, who would watch Brody too intently that Rachel would be trying to go all Lima Heights Adjacent, and a screeching Kurt Hummel because _it wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to wreck my flea market chairs with #2 red dye, do you remember what he did to Blaine, San?_ Especially when she was that close to getting laid at the club before Sebastian intervened, ready to go home.

On these mornings when Santana wakes up in a bed with Sebastian, sometimes cuddling, the grogginess associated with waking up dissipates quickly and they ignore the fact that his legs are knotted with hers; they refuse to acknowledge that it happens, no matter stop to think about why.

Sebastian Smythe, under the hard shell of one-night stands, is a cuddlier. Santana Lopez can’t admit she misses the feeling of Brittany’s smooth legs between hers in the morning. Sebastian is very good at blaming it on the alcohol, and Santana is very good at blaming it on the fact that Sebastian was a horrible wing man and wonders if the boy is actually gay, because with the amount of times he’s been a cockblock lately, Santana really had to consider the possibility that he’s jealous and in love with her.

Santana never considered the possibility that maybe Sebastian Smythe was going out with the intention of returning to that horrid apartment that he so openly disapproved of.


	2. Are You Okay Annie

Santana quite approved of Rachel’s new look. She no longer looked like an animal sweater infested grandma, and it wasn’t that Japanese-playboy thing that she’d taken to during Britney week. Santana wasn’t afraid to admit that maybe she’d taken a look here or there since moving in, but it was still Rachel annoying-gold-star Berry, the little annoying thing from high school who wore knee high socks with skirts. Now there was short dresses and big hair with high boots. What really was more interesting to Santana was what - or who - had brought about this change.

As Santana’s eyes settled on Brody for the first time, she leaned back into the lounge and kicked her feet up onto the table with a sly smile before slowly clapping. The noise gained the attention of Kurt and Rachel and Brody (who at that time didn’t actually have a name in Santana’s head because wow, that ass.) Her self-desperation wasn’t so bad that she would take the suggestions that were clear in the unknown boy’s eyes as she watched him gaze up and down her own body; no, not desperate enough for that, she told herself.

“Fine piece of ass you’ve got there, Berry. I don’t know when you started attracting levels of porn star, but congratulations.” Rachel’s face twisted with Santana’s words, first confusion flitting over it closely followed by ownership.

“Santana, this is Brody, my boyfriend.”

“Nice to see you didn’t end up with another manboy sack of potatoes but my sex-dar is telling me that this one with abs isn’t even that much better tha-“

Santana was cut off by both Kurt slapping her feet off the table and Rachel pulling Brody into an unnecessarily passionate kiss. She might have learnt how to dress like a normal person, but watching Rachel kiss another person still made Santana want to throw up - “Watch it Berry. We don’t need another nationals fiasco.”

—

It seemed that New York had been very good for Rachel and Kurt in Santana’s opinion, clothes aside. On the first night of Santana’s stay, they went out to a bar, a honest to god bar with alcohol, which was surprising enough. She didn’t expect them to actually have fun though.

The room was dark with bright lights, the music was loud (and good, but what was to be expected from a bar which NYADA students frequented) and when Rachel showed the bartender an ID that didn’t have her name on it, he promptly ignored it, even when somebody called over to her by name. Santana was too shocked to even think about confronting Rachel about what she’d seen, not to mention that Kurt had one too.

Santana got her first drink of the night without even opening her own wallet, and she had her first dance that night before her lips even touched a drink. It wasn’t until she’d danced through a handful of songs, never a moment without being touched, or touching, and something loosened inside Santana. If Rachel could have Brody and Kurt could have that british boy that he’d pounced upon entering the bar, then Santana was allowed these _people_. If Brittany could have Sam, then she could have New York. She could have all of New York, she could be a rumor on the wind, and nobody needed to know.

The girl Santana had up against the bathroom wall was the fifteenth or sixteenth person she’d danced with, being the new shiny toy that everybody wanted a part of, passed around like a cake everybody wanted a piece of. She ignored the fact that it was only going to last so long. But this girl wanted her, she wanted this girl, so in that moment it was simple enough. Plus, you know, orgasm.

The anonymity got Santana drunker than any of the alcohol did on that first night.

—

Seriously, Berry was with Brody _all the time and_ despite all the fun Santana had riling up Rachel, she got tired really quickly of the claiming displays. But it wasn’t her fault that Brody found her attractive, even when she was lounging around in a tank top and pajama shorts with a bag of doritos.

Anytime Santana turned her way in a bar (really, Callbacks, because they only ever went to the same bar), suddenly Rachel was more attentive to Brody. It was cruel, really, but as tiring as it was, Rachel needed to remove that stick from her ass and remember that Santana was gay.

That particular night was no different, except for the fact that they left the club at 7 o’clock, due to Rachel’s whininess about being tired and Kurt wanting to leave since Adam couldn’t make it that night. On their way home Rachel, ever presently trying to be the head, ordered them a Hawaiian pizza. With extra meat.

It was so hard to not make a joke about how Rachel was eating a lot of meat lately.

Brody left quickly with excuses of a boy’s night out on the town, but Santana knew he just needed time to breathe. As soon as the boy was gone, the whole atmosphere of the apartment shifted into something comfortable, and Rachel’s eyes unattached themselves from Santana’s movements.

“So I heard that Adam’s Apples is getting more popular, I mean as popular as a group at NYADA can get without me joining, and Adam has to start limiting members, and I also heard that everybody is still talking about what you said to Peter and Clance-“

Half the bottle of wine was gone, the pizza box was empty, Hummelberry were platonically cuddling under the blanket - seriously, people wouldn’t believe that they were both getting laid if they walked in right now- and it was downright boring, with Santana becoming inattentive quickly. She wasn’t interested in their gossip about that school which seemed to be full of attractive performers if Callbacks was anything to go

by, but not because she didn’t know any of them, but because she just didn’t care.

After her nails were perfect, she gave up the pretense of even trying to be interested in what was going on in the apartment. “As fun as this is Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, there is a lot of fine ass in this city that I need to be introduced to, and quite frankly if I go to Callbacks one more time I will go all Lima Heights on you, so I’m going to find a pair of less lame people to hang out with. Have a fun night playing Mr and Mrs Gay Smith and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll bring someone back and show you what noises you should be making in the bedroom because you two are lackin’ -“

Rising from the couch with a muttered “we were seriously just practicing notes, oh my god Santana,” Kurt reached for Santana’s palm and pressed something heavy and metallic into it. Although she wanted to flinch back from the cold and slightly ragged edge barely piercing her skin, she didn’t, and instead she flipped the key over with her index finger, smiling down at it.

She would be able to come and go now, without having to coordinate times with somebody or class schedules and be able leave the bar as early or as late as she wanted. When Santana met Kurt’s eyes, her mind searched for a suitable response, because she couldn’t just say thank you to Hummel. She aimed for a nod, but instead ended up head-butting Kurt’s shoulder as he’d tentatively moved in for a hug at the same time. In the end, after a small screech, Santana let her arms wind around Kurt for a second, let herself get close enough that she could actually smell his cologne, ignores Rachel’s obvious dissatisfaction before moving away because Miss Santana Lopez does not get emotional over a key.

Either way, that key found a very comfortable position in her wallet, like they were meant for each other.

—

Key in hand and an extra bounce in her step, Santana found herself wandering the streets of New York, slightly disorientated. She’d left so quickly after Kurt had given her a key that she hadn’t even stopped to think about where she was going. She knew she wanted to go somewhere that held a lot women and an equal amount of alcohol, but apart from Callbacks, she didn’t actually know where that was.

Callbacks was off the list for obvious reasons, but mainly as the bar had lost its charm. After a few weeks of going there with Kurt and Rachel and Rachel’s eternally naked boyfriend, she was becoming known as _Santana_ rather than _Berry’s friend_ , losing that anonymity that she’d first got drunk on, leaving that space to be filled with alcohol, which was becoming a more difficult feat than it ought to have been. The people were becoming repetitive; Liz with the blonde hair would come in early Friday night looking for plain sex, Alison with the (unnaturally) blonde hair would want to talk, Rebecca with the long blonde hair would want to grind, but in the end none of them were Brittany S. Pierce, and it was harder to pretend.

Following a group of drunk, giggling girls - and really universe, a unicorn horn head band? - she found herself facing two doors, side by side, with two sets of bouncers standing arms crossed. To the right was a long queue, filled with girls in short dresses and couples holding hands, waiting to be let into _Glamorous_. The name was written across the top of the door in neon tubing, flashing on and off, making Santana shy back for a second. Once her eyes had adjusted to that eye-abuse, she could see the bouncer ready to wave her through, into the halls of what was sure to be a loud, drunk club. What made Santana choose the club to the left with a broken sign (“rub—s” and the humour was not lost on her) and a bouncer who looked like he only cared about his carrot coloured beard, she would never quite understand.

The club looked as kept as the carrot beard, which in reality meant, not very well. It was obvious that a lot of time went into running this place, but that the people doing it weren’t inept. It smelt of deodorant trying to be used as cologne, of quick sex and Russian vodka. But it also smelt of women. Santana took a quick glance, only to discern that the gender ratio of the room was one-to-one, but also that the men were talking to the men, and the women were touching the hips of other women. The women were congregated on one side of the room, which coincidentally seemed to be the dance floor, in sweating attractive mass, moving to a song Santana wasn’t familiar with. _(Like I’m fucking in an elevator. You need me but I don’t need you.)_

Santana wasn’t new to masses of people dancing in sync, but the image in front of her felt pornographic, and there was a bit that felt as if she was intruding. She was new here - to this, even - and all the bodies in this room knew each other. They already knew how to move together, like if they stayed together for long enough nobody would need to go to the bathroom with somebody else.

She knew sex and alcohol and Glee club intimately, but she didn’t know this.

The men, on the other hand, felt a lot less overwhelming to look at. They were all scattered around the bar, trickling along the length into a raised room which, through the mist of smoke, seemed to contain a collection of pool tables.

Her investigation ended there though, as fingers enclosed around her wrist and dragged her into the throng of female movement, following the fingers urging her closer, until her top was stained with unfamiliar sweat and her arms were burned with the memory of unknown hands. She danced like it was a drug she was irrevocably addicted to, let herself be passed around as the new shiny thing once again, opening herself into the low burning of her stomach, the fast beating of her heart. Could the other patrons hear the thumping of something new starting, of a new chapter in Santana’s life?

As her body found itself on the other side of the mass and Santana had to quickly adjust to the fact that she didn’t remember getting there. She fluttered her eyes open, and was greeted with the sight of a body standing over a pool table, lining up a shot with the pool queue. The boy - or rather man, because even from back here she could tell that he wasn’t a sneaky teenager looking for some fun - dragged the queue back and forward, getting ready for the shot, and it seemed to be getting him a lot of attention. The eyes of the men crowded around focused on the man’s fingers; how they loosened as the queue was dragged backwards, and how they made a complete circle as it pushed forward. Santana’s brow furled in confusion; was the man trying to be a tease or aiming for a perfect shot?

It was a clean shot, the clink of balls resonating throughout the room, and the man stands up, running a hand through his hair, and then reaching for a beer. Santana, at this point, knew she’d been living with Hummel for too long as her brain actually made a point of recognizing that Kurt would throw a fit over what the man was wearing. She could hear his words in her ear, a running commentary on all the clothes in the bar, and he wasn’t letting out on the man. “Dresses like a prep boy; my guess is that he didn’t buy those clothes himself, a girlfriend or a mother did.”

Due to the fact that the segregation showed that Santana was so obviously standing in a gay bar, she knew it wasn’t a girlfriend dressing the boy (and actually if it was, everything became so much more fun.) The jeans were tight enough to show off a nice ass, but they wouldn’t be hard to get off; the top was loose, leaving lots of space for hands to slide around, for it to be tugged up and off quickly- the man was wearing sex clothes. Santana narrowed her eyes, noticing how the hair was off in a way that wasn’t from a simple hand swipe, how the jeans weren’t on straight, and as the man turned quickly with a beer at his lips, how his skin had a glowing undercurrent to it.

It took a lot longer than it should have to register that she knew this man.

He was unimportant and irrelevant, obviously, as Santana didn’t know where she knew him from. She knew he wasn’t a guy from McKinley because she’d fucked most of them and had to keep a list of guys not to get with again-

An awkward shaped bruise on her under-boob, Meerkat, a Dalton uniform.

_Holy shit, that’s Sebastian Smythe._

Sebastian looked a little bit skinnier than Santana remembered, and a shade lighter if the bar lights were to be trusted. All the finesse of limbs he’d displayed over the pool table were gone, his body relaxed, his eyes slightly hollow and his beer nearly finished. He was laughing at something, hands openly flirting with another man’s hips that appeared so comfortable that it seemed Sebastian had practice.

It would have been so easy to move back into the mass again and get lost in sensation, and just forget about Sebastian Smythe, so for that exact reason, she started making her way towards him.

Her oncoming presence was observed by Sebastian when a murmur ran through the crowd of men simultaneously, so naturally his eyes moved to seek out what had produced such an effect.

And then they were standing in front of each other; at first glance they looked like a bitter broken up couple as his face wore a smirk, and hers was playing with the idea of using bobby pins as a weapon. There was less than a meter between them, but neither of them shifted away. Sebastian’s friend had retreated a step back, but other than that, there was no movement, like they were all eternally frozen in ice.

Sebastian was the one to speak first. “Are you okay Annie?”


	3. Chapter 3

The fact that Sebastian is living in New York shouldn’t actually be as surprising to Santana as it is. He may be an A grade bitch living by his own agenda, but in retrospect, he lives and breathes New York. In Lima he had never been ashamed of his alcoholic conquests, and out of all the people who would make it out of sheer stubbornness (or because he has slept through the whole town) and into the real world is Sebastian Smythe. She can even respect that, on a bitch to bitch level. 

Her realisation that she has underestimated the pig-faced man-child doesn’t mean that she is going to let his memory loss slide. Nobody forgets Santana Lopez, and even if she publicly has to go all Lima heights on his ass in a bar to make him remember her, she will. “I don’t know how many times you were dropped on your head, but my name ain’t Annie, and you know that.”

His face tells her that he knows who she is - remembers one threatening duet that ought to have been recorded and sold - and he also knows that she’s planning on inflecting pain with bobby pins, but somehow he is finding it funny. His smirk is growing wider and somebody on the other side of the pool table is asking if she’s an old girlfriend. 

Crossing her arms, she doesn’t say anything. For a start, she isn’t sure how to reply beyond a slap in the face, which after a second becomes a great idea, and she slaps that smirk right off the smug meerkat’s face. Sebastian doesn’t even flinch, which is quite annoying, because it takes away some of Santana’s satisfaction. 

Cocking his head back and then stretching it to both sides, he flicks his pool cue around in his hand until the tip is facing the roof. Santana decides that he’s trying to be threatening, bearing the cue like an old fashioned spear, but she grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, and she’s no where near even uncomfortable. As she starts laughing, Sebastian takes the tip of the cue and presses it up under Santana’s chin, moving in until their bodies are less than a hand’s width apart. She can feel his breath on her lips, so she starts making a show of pretending to dry-wrench, as she moves to sit on the corner of the pool table, flicking the ball that Sebastian was lining up to shoot, throwing the game.

Everybody around the table groaned, a few swearing about how it was a tense game, and Santana smiles in response, flicking her hair back. “Go on honey, threaten me again.”

As much as Santana actually likes this club, she very seriously considers being labelled straight if it means that she takes Sebastian down with her. She hasn’t completely forgiven him for what she did to her friends in high school, and although this place could become a large part of her New York life, the satisfaction of making sure that Sebastian couldn’t return here would be worth it. 

“That game was gonna get me laid,” Sebastian snarls, dropping the cue to tap against Santana’s leg. “And it isn’t my fault that you were kicked to the curb by some blonde after realising that you were just a phase. Doesn’t mean you have to fuck up my night.” Looking at her for a second, he lets his eyes linger over the length of her body, until they level at her eyes, challenging. “Unless you’re trying to tell me that you actually want to fuck me.”

Setting the cue to the side, he reaches over the pool table to reset the balls. “It’s flattering, honey, but if you and I were the last two people on earth, I think I’d fuck your girlfriend first - oh, ex girlfriend.”

This gets Sebastian another slap, and this time Sebastian does flinch back, his hands instinctively going to cradle the side of his face.

Smiling, Santana walks down the ramp, and back into the dancing crowd.

The moving mass of bodies starts to calm Santana down. Her anger seeps out in every touch by the people around her, and she doesn’t remember ending up in the corner with legs wrapped around her hips, but the blonde looks enough like Brittany that amongst all the out-of-tune singing and bad music, she doesn’t actively notice that it’s not Britney. In the end, when Santana presses in, the blonde girl doesn’t make the same sounds, doesn’t kiss the right places, and she may be the first person to hook up, in what is basically a sex club, and not actually get off. 

Not only is her mind stuck on the fact that she is still hopelessly in love with Brittany, she now has the added problem of Sebastian Smythe. His words are rolling around in her mind, each time aggravating her more and modem until she’s ready to have a piece of his mind. 

He’s playing another game of pool with the same button-nosed blond as he was before, butt pressed out like one of those monkeys in heat. It’s quite funny to look at, and when she shimmies up along him again, she slaps it.

Sebastian turns towards her. “Jesus, bipolar much. Didn’t they teach you about manner at that public school of yours? Fuck off.”

“Well if they didn’t teach you that throwing a rock salt slushy into somebody’s face wasn’t a dick move, I’m doing better than you,” Santana purrs, eyes locked on Sebastian’s conquest. Santana makes her way around the pool table, dragging her fingernails around the edge until she’s hip and hip with button nose boy. She slings an arm over his shoulders and leans into his side.

“Does your girlfriend know you’re here?” Santana asks in the boy’s ear, his face turning red in response. He tries to stutter out a response, but Santana moves the boy’s shoulders so that he’s facing her, and she places a finger on his lips. “Honey no, I know when you’re lying.”

The button nose boy is still blushing, head bowed and trying to make himself look as small as possible. 

Sebastian must decided to just ignore Santana, his eyes selectively ignoring her existence, leaning over the table to line up and shoot his next shot. One of the solid balls flies off into one of the corner pockets, falling in with a loud crunch, and Sebastian smirks. Gazing over the table, Santana can see that Sebastian is winning, and she doesn’t want to know what the prize is.

“Your turn,” Sebastian purrs at button nose boy. (She doesn’t know his name and she feels as if Sebastian doesn’t know it either.)

The boy seems to consider the situation, but he’s still red and embarrassed and hiding on himself, so when he slinks away, Santana isn’t surprised. Sebastian’s face slides from a smirk to anger as the boy becomes one with the crowd.

“Did you really have to do that?” Sebastian asks, slamming the bottom of the pool queue into the ground. His fingers are gripped around the top end of the queue, sliding due to the sweat against the polished wood. “He didn’t know anything; he would have done whatever I’d asked.”

Santana shrugs, and checks her cubicles. “He has a girlfriend.”

“And you think I didn’t know that? Fuck you.”

“Wow, you’re sluttier than I give you credit for if sleeping with a guy who has a girlfriend doesn’t ring any warning bells.” Santana considers her words, then shrugs. “Or just more desperate.”

“Don’t you have other things to be doing instead of ruining my evening?” Sebastian sneers, walking around the table to collect the abandoned pool queue. Just before Sebastian grabs it, Santana snatches it herself.

“You ready to lose to a girl?” Santana challenges, raising a perfect eyebrow and sizing herself up to the pool table. Sebastian just laughs in response, gripping onto the table for support as his body visibly shakes.

“Oh, thinking that you can beat me at pool has made my night. A fuck would have been good, but slaughtering you will be better.” Sebastian slips all the balls out of the pockets and rolling them towards the centre.

Santana watches, leaning on the wall behind her, as Sebastian sets the table. She makes no move to help him, knowing that he’d feel slighted but also wouldn’t say anything about it. 

When the table is complete, he slides the triangle into a drawer, and turns to Santana. “I’d say ladies first, but luckily there are no ladies here.”

“Am I supposed to be offended? Because if anything I’m ashamed that you’re such a sexist, effemiphobic asshole.” Santana reaches for the white ball, lining it up and planning her first shot before Sebastian can say or do anything. She hits the ball with all the precision and skill she learnt playing pool as a child and teenager. Even though she’d grown up in Lima Heights, her father had been in the medical profession, and she had been shoed into a few too many fancy dinner nights, in houses with pool tables.

A solid rolls into the back right pocket, and Santana straightens up and throws a smirk Sebastian’s way. She moves around and takes her second shot, which moves into her third shot. Her third shots ends up being a posturing one, moving one of the solids down the table so that it’s in line for her next turn. 

Sebastian hits one of his in, and then knocks Santana’s one out of the way instead of aiming for his own. 

They play through the game, silently, both calculating every possible shot, ignoring the crowd gathering around them. There’s cheering after every shot, a lot of shots deflecting other ones rather than going for them.

Eventually they’re just playing cat and mouse, Sebastian chasing Santana’s last ball around the table and blocking as many shots as he can. She shoots around them though, using every angle and bouncing trick she knows to be left with only the eight ball to shoot in. 

If Santana didn’t know better, she’d guess that Sebastian was looking a bit nervous, and a lot less cocky. 

Santana shoots the eight in, bouncing it off one of the side walls, and when it falls into the pocket, it rings triumph in Santana’s ears. “So what do I win?”

“We weren’t playing for anything,” Sebastian replies curtly, and Santana could swear that she heard a subdued boo from the small crowd around them.

“Nah ugh,” Santana shakes, putting her queue away and then putting a finger up in front of Sebastian’s face, shaking it. “You have to be my wingman tonight.”

“We weren’t playing for anything!” Sebastian exclaims, forcing his queue back onto the stand. 

“But we played,” Santana replies. “And I won. Don’t you play with the honour code?”

“Fucking hell,” Sebastian sighs, looking to Santana with a version of defeat across his face, before flicking in the direction of the dance floor. “Alright. Just get it fucking over with quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short!  
> Just needed to write some therapeutic Sebtana.   
> Kurtbastian should start popping up in the next few parts though.


End file.
